


In The Darkest Places

by Fire_Sign, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Armistice Day, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-07 04:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16847101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: London, November 1929. Two days of Remembrance. From the promptJack and Phryne deal with anniversaries... but not any of the ones between the two of them.





	In The Darkest Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boccardo_syllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boccardo_syllogism/gifts).



> Two little historical details here. The first is that the “Lest We Forget” refrain comes from Rudyard Kipling’s poem Recessional, first published in 1897. In the wake of the first world war, it became a common expression across the British Commonwealth in regards to war memorials and ceremonies. It was only while writing this that I learnt its usage was not so widespread in the US. The second is about the two days this fic spans—in the UK, Remembrance Sunday is the second Sunday in November, and then Armistice Day is the actual anniversary of armistice (November 11th). While, officially, Remembrance Day was November 11th (the actual armistice) until 1945 in the UK, there are contemporary records of Remembrance Sunday being a more sombre memorial date and the anniversary of Armistice being a day spent more in revelry from the early 1920s. I decided to explore this history, rather than the official dates of commemoration. Now if only I could find the book I read that in so I could cite my sources...

#### Sunday, November 10th, 1929

They both rise early. There are no tender, teasing touches this morning. The sky outside is grey, the mood sombre. Phryne spends twice as long as usual in the bath; Jack shaves with a careful precision he saves for the most important days. They don their armour together—a dark grey suit for him, bought for this journey; for her, a snow white dress with a crimson coat, a strange almost-parody of the uniform she once wore, transformed into elegant luxury.

They do not speak, because they do not need to. Eleven years of peace has not been enough to erase the echoes of war from their daily lives, nor remove it from their dreams. It is a burden but not a burden, a transformative experience; they like who it has shaped them into being, even if they do not like how they got here.

She pins a poppy on his lapel, her hand resting over his heartbeat, and he smiles. _Life_ , even in the darkest of places. He offers his arm as they leave the hotel, spilling onto the street where people have begun to gather.

There are faces, memories; there always are, in a crowd like this. Men who lived. Men who didn’t. Men who wished they hadn’t. But it is easier today; when the past looms too large, there is a tangible reminder of the present beside them.

They stand, shoulder to shoulder, and bear witness to the parade. Listen to the ceremony, the readings, the words that have, in so few years, become a mantra and a promise and a hollow sentiment all at once. Feel the weight of the day wash over them. Today is not for them.

_Lest we forget_. As if they ever could.

#### Monday, November 11th, 1929

She is not a woman who dwells on the past. There is too much tragedy in this world; it could break you, if you gave it a chance, so she doesn’t. When she wakes on Armistice Day, she stretches, purrs, admires the man in bed beside her. He is beautiful in sleep, and she is thankful he is there. But she has plans for the day, and so she rises.

Her bath is not the extended ablution it was the day before; memory makes her washing quick, a necessity instead of a luxury, a reminder of the woman she once was. The woman who toiled until the scent of blood was the only thing she could smell, until she thought all compassion and softness obliterated. The woman who found friendship even in hell, the connections keeping her human, keeping her alive. _Life_ , even in the darkest of places.

She’s nearly dressed when he stirs; she observes him from the mirror as she places her earrings. He stretches, sits up, watches her watching him. She can hear him breathe, see him run a hand through his hair.

“Going somewhere, Miss Fisher?”

His voice is sinful, and she contemplates returning to bed. Making love to him. But she has places to be, and some things cannot be deferred for pleasure.

“My ambulance unit,” she explains. “Every year. I go when I can. You’re welcome to join us?”

He smiles. She loves him for any number of reasons, but none more than because he knows precisely what to say.

“I have plans of my own, but I’ll see you tonight.”

She’d welcome him, her offer is sincere, but she is relieved all the same.

Today is for her. The woman she was. The woman she is. The telephone rings, marking the arrival of a friend; she kisses him quickly, then swipes on her lipstick and heads for the door.

*

He hasn’t seen these men in over a decade. Their letters are sparse, uninformative out of necessity. How could you capture those atrocities on paper, after all, and who would want to? But he joins them in the pub and it is, in so many ways, as if no time has passed at all. Except it has; the empty spaces around the table are still there, the untouched whiskeys for the fallen still bought, but the ache has faded. He remembers, but it no longer consumes him.

They talk about the war. It’s impossible not to, on a day like today. Eleven years precisely; names on paper bringing peace when blood never could. They remember the cold, the noise, the smell, the mud. But they remember the other things too, and before long they are laughing. They talk about their lives after the war—the children who had seemed a distant dream, the jobs they’ve taken, books they’ve read, lives they’ve lived. _Life_ , even in the darkest of places.

Some bonds cannot be broken or replicated, forged from circumstances so extraordinary that they are impossible to explain.

Today is for him.The boy who went to war and the man who returned.

*

She returns to the hotel room before he does, draws a bath, washes away the grime of the day. She is glad to have gone, glad to have reminisced and laughed, glad to be alive; it is good. None of them are quite the fresh-faced youths who’d gone to war, but they were still family, still bound together by experience, for good or ill. It is a camaraderie she can find nowhere else, but the memory of mud and blood runs through it all. And perhaps that too is good, a tangible reminder of all that the war cost, but she is glad to shed it beneath the lavender-scented water. Some prices are too high to pay all the time.

She hears his approach before the door even opens, an off-key singing of a song she’s only ever heard in passing. A soldier’s song. She wraps herself in her robe and leaves the lavatory just as he comes home, clearly tipsy and smiling. There’s a man behind him she doesn’t know but smiles at all the same.

“Phryne Fisher,” she says simply, extending her hand in welcome. She is not the Honorable Miss or the ragtag child from Collingwood or the anonymous warm face and steady hand in the back of an ambulance, or perhaps she is all of them and more.

“Thomas,” he says in return, taking her hand. “Thomas Harrison.”

“Well, Thomas, thank you very much for bringing the inspector home.”

The man shrugs, a look in his eyes she knows all too well—memories are fickle things, painful and omnipresent at times, even now, so many years later.

“Least I could do,” he says. “Robbo made sure I did.”

She wonders what he was like, this Robbo; still noble, she’s certain. Still bearing responsibilities that should never have been his to bear. Idly, she wonders whether they would have recognised each other in the war. She sees him, a little, in Jack’s face sometimes. Especially tonight. But he is hers now, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victorian Constabulary.

“That does sound like a tale I’d like to hear,” she says. “Another evening, perhaps?”

The man nods, says his goodbyes. Phryne turns to Jack, who is still humming, and draws him into her arms. Kisses him, tasting the whiskey on his breath. Feels his hand slip beneath her robe, beneath her chemise, finding her heartbeat. _Life_ , even in the darkest of places.

Tonight is just for them.

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: _Jack and Phryne deal with anniversaries... but not any of the ones between the two of them. Potential ideas: Jack's first wedding anniversary after the divorce [or after he and Phryne get together]. Remembering traumatizing events in the war, for either. Something with Janey. When Phryne escaped Dubois - or when he reappeared in Melbourne. If these are a bit too angsty, maybe Phrack helping the Collinses celebrate their anniversary, or a letter from Phryne to Jack on her parents' anniversary while they're apart._ which was an absolute DELIGHT that lent itself to so many options. Alas, this was an angel write while I was trying (and failing) to complete my assigned fic, and the 100th anniversary of Armistice rather demanded that this be the one I wrote.


End file.
